Ritual Revival

Ritual Revival – Franklin Marsh

Being a researcher for a television show is good fun when you’re young. I was twenty-one, footloose, fancy-free, and enjoyed bombing around London, visiting museums, libraries, newspaper archives, meeting interesting people, rubbing shoulders with so-called ‘celebrities’ -who are always shorter and more bad-tempered than they appear on screen. Comedians are particularly miserable bastards.

The pay was shite, but that didn’t matter at the time. I had good friends and good times. When the Beeb decided to do a ‘McGregor Investigates’ on Witchcraft, I thought I’d hit the jackpot.

Seeing my grandfather drool over the Sunday scandal rag exposes, to an adolescent fascination with suicide, murder and ‘the dark side’, it seemed I’d always been around the subject. Books of horror stories, and the inevitable horror films (even if the sfx weren’t very s) fuelled the fire.

It was in a music paper that I first saw a picture of Anton Krolok. Sandy Beech was doing an article on rock and the occult. It seemed Krolok had a big effect on drug-addled pop stars of the late sixties. Not bad for a fraudulent old fart who’d died penniless in the late forties, jeered as a liar, a traitor and a conman.

The paper printed a couple of photographs of him. I was initially struck by his resemblance to a favourite old comic character of mine, Grimly Fiendish. There was something about him. Particularly his eyes.

I moseyed down to the library and took out Ron Simmons’ biography The Huge Monster. Simmons’ had met him when he was dying. The biographer dismissed most of the stories, but had to admit, he had something. He’d been condemned in the thirties as ‘The Most Beastly Man In Britain’ – a title that had transferred to some of his musician admirers thirty years later.

I sighed. There was something much more interesting about this kind of notoriety than the current wave of child-molesters and terrorists, who all seemed so ordinary.

Colin McGregor was a well known investigative journalist, who’d worked on a broadsheet before being approached by the BBC. His journalism was respected, his articles and programmes caused ripples, and had been actually seen to provoke change.

The Witchcraft special had been cooked up as a light-hearted end of series filler. McGregor wasn’t happy about this. In a warm-up meeting, I was quite surprised by his reaction. His brusque dismissal of the subject matter seemed fuelled, not by scepticism, but…by fear. This piqued my curiosity No-one else seemed to have picked up on it. Was the bedrock of sense scared of a few old coots (most of whom were dead) who claimed to be Black Sorcerors?

The programme makers had decided to concentrate on three occultists. Krolok, the Reverend Monty Winters and current ‘King Of The Warlocks’ Alexis Sandbag. (Windbag would be more appropriate – he never shut up – talking about himself.)

McGregor seemed to cheer up when one of his old chums, novelist Gregory Pendennis , was wheeled in. Pendennis had churned out some ‘Black Sorcery’ novels, one of which (To Hell With The Devil) had been a best-seller, and filmed by Mallet Studios years back.

Pendennis was a cheery old soak, who skilfully marketed himself as an authority on the matter, although he had never participated in anything unsavoury (he said). I liked him.
He was dismissive of Krolok in the main, but admitted that the man had enormous occult knowledge, and had undoubtedly participated in Black Masses, unholy rituals, and almost certainly many, many orgies (the lucky bugger!)

The producers of the show became tremendously excited by an offer by Sandbag to attempt a ritual to conjure up Krolok actually on the programme.

McGregor stormed out. Pendennis, even in his cups on licence-payer funded brandy, advised against it.

The project was shelved , at least within McGregor’s earshot. A rumour ran round the studio that Sandbag was going to go ahead, when filming was completed and McGregor had left for the day. Part of me wanted to attend out of a desire to see how these things worked, although convinced nothing would happen. Another part of me was very afraid, and didn’t want to have anything to do with it. If this rubbish could actually frighten one of the most hard-nosed, no-nonsense reporters in Britain, it would have no problem with a self-confessed coward like myself.

Filming for the actual programme went very well. We had the luxury of nearly a week, and it was almost done by Thursday. McGregor had a few pickups to do on Friday, and would be off to Scotland by lunchtime. The crew and backroom staff would be having a wrap booze-up in The Dog & Ferret all afternoon. The rumours abounded that they would reconvene in the Studio at midnight for the Sandbag revive Krolok ritual.

I had cried off, saying I was going away for the weekend, but had found a cradle up in the lighting rigs when I assisted Albie the lighting engineer, that I was sorely tempted to secrete myself in to watch the goings on. Do a Pendennis – be there yet not participate.

I’d been reading in the cradle on Wednesday night when I overheard a conversation between Pendennis and McGregor. Our presenter was obviously worried that this bit of fun would seriously compromise his standing as a journalist. Pendennis waved his fears away.

‘Present it straight, Mac. Give it to ‘em like you mean it. Just before the summing up, take the piss a bit. It’s hogwash, you know. And then, on the sign-off, give ‘em that hint that it might be for real. Just a tiny seed of doubt. They’ll love it.’

‘Do you believe, Greg?’ McGregor sounded worried. I wanted to peek over the side of the cradle to see their faces, but daren’t move in case I was discovered.

Pendennis paused for a very long time.

‘Let’s say I don’t not believe, Mac. I can’t actually say I’ve seen anything truly…supernatural. But this stuff has been around for centuries. And these practitioners you’re concentrating on…they’re intelligent men. They believe. Even that silly ass Sandbag. He’s on to a good thing at the moment. Publicity, he’s coining it, and he’s got the pick of the young popsies that fall under his spell. I mean, who wouldn’t? But you often get the feeling that it won’t last. There’ll be a balance. You’ve scotched this séance nonsense?’
‘Yes. Damn’ young fools. I’ve told them, any fooling around and they’re out.’

‘Good man. 98% of this stuff is absolute tripe. But the other 2 % …’

The two old buffers wandered off.

So, anyone caught playing around with Witchy stuff would be sacked. Good job I wouldn’t be there officially. Forget it, I told myself. Get away for a couple of days.

But the lure of the Forbidden felt stronger than ever. And Jan was one of the people who wanted to participate in the Ritual. And the Sundays always stated that you had to be naked during these affairs. Nope, I had to attend.


‘******************************************

The rest of Thursday and Friday morning turned out to be very, very busy. Old Pop from the archives had dug up some radio broadcasts. A film can from the American avant-garde film-maker Kevin Ire turned up. And the ex-girlfriend of singer, bandleader and occultist, the late George Premium turned up to talk to McGregor.

2pm and the programme was completed, bar a couple of last minute edits. Colin McGregor was still having last minute doubts. The show was to be broadcast the following Tuesday, so a number of Sunday hacks had been sniffing around. They’d give us a great plug, but McGregor was convinced they’d be vilifying the Beeb for broadcasting filth. After the show, there was to be a round table discussion led by Joanne Bakelite and including Sandbag, the Bishop of London plus pundit Bryan Buggeridge as a damage limitation exercise.

The producers had some footage of goose-pimpled spotty herberts in the nude, dancing round a fire on a blasted heath, but there were reservations. How much flesh could be shown? There would be complaints, but the ratings would rocket. Decisions, decisions.

I was with editor Sam Markules, who was trying to fit some pictures of Krolok to a radio broadcast the Magician had made just before the Second World War. Markules was running with three pictures, trying to fade them into one another. Krolok’s voice, quavery with age but still with undeniable power, was droning on about an English magician of the 17th Century who had interested him. Krolok had been in America during the war, and commented that he’d picked up on the magician’s trail.

‘He don’t half talk some shit, don’t he?’ groaned Markules. ‘Still, they’ll tune in for the tits and bums. But I don’t think Mr McGregor will be returning for another series, if the balloon goes.up. The Blackhouse woman is on standby. We’re already trying to line up a repeat week after next. Will you be down the pub?’

‘No. No. I’ve got to get off when we’re done. Visiting the folks.’

‘You might miss a treat. I think old Windbag’s going to go ahead with his ritual.’

‘I thought McGregor forbade it?’

‘He’s gone. What he doesn’t know….’

I tried to make light of it.

‘What if he did bring old Anton back?’

Markules laughed.

‘We’d stick an extra ten minutes on the repeat, and get Anton on the next available chat show.’

I sloped off thirty minutes later.

‘****************************

Returning to the studios at nine, I managed to slip past Scranton the night watchman. I’d forgotten about him. I wondered how the returning staff would explain their presence to him. Be a laugh if he walked in on the lot of ‘em starkers.

I climbed up into the light cradle, and positioned a couple of cushions to make my self comfortable. I’d bought a child’s periscope so that I could watch the proceedings and remain hidden. I just hoped no-one would look up and spot it.

I must have dozed off, as I jerked awake to the sound of shushings and giggles below. I glanced through the periscope aperture. It was dark below. I could make out three, four, five (?) figures. All sounded drunk. One fell over which caused hysterical hushed laughter. They sat down in a circle. One spoke to the others. I assumed that it was Sandbag. God, he sounded boring from up here. The vocalist stood up and began to move around. I couldn’t make out what he was up to until he lit some candles. Black ones. He’d drawn a shaky pentagram on the studio floor. A black candle was at each point. I tried to make out the indistinct figures, but couldn’t identify anyone. They all wore hooded robes, to my disappointment.

The main speaker rejoined the others on the floor inside the pentacle. He lit an incense pyramid, and began to lead an undecipherable chant. The others joined in. They might be pissed, but they knew the words.

The plumes of smoke from the incense seemed to coagulate in the candlelight, above the ritual participants. A real atmosphere was forming down there. I felt uncomfortable, but daren’t move. I moved the periscope slightly, but still couldn’t identify any of the people below, apart from the leader of the ritual whom I was sure was Sandbag.

A red light caught my attention. Focusing the periscope, I saw that it was atop a camera. A camera that was pointing at the participants. They were being filmed? There was no cameraman, and I had not seen anyone move the camera, or turn it on.

I was definitely feeling uneasy now. The chanting was getting louder. Surely Scranton must hear them. The small ring of people had their arms out stretched toward the cloud of smoke above them. Something moved within it. I strained my eye, but could not make it out. It grew larger. The robed figures were standing now, caressing the smoke. Was it solidifying? Impossible!
The circle of ritualists guided the thickening smoke to the floor. It had assumed a human shape. There was definitely something in it. My hair was standing on end. I couldn’t believe my eye. I slowly, carefully put the periscope down within the cradle, and tried to pull my self upward to look over the side of the cradle. I made it just as the smoke cleared. The hooded figures stepped back and revealed what could only be Anton Krolok lying naked on the floor. The figures disrobed. I saw Sandbag, Jan, Liz, Sam and old Pop! Leaning forward in disbelief as they began to run their hands over Krolok’s body, one of my cushions abandoned cradle. I tried to grasp it but was too late.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The cushion floated, achingly slowly, down between the circle of ritualists and landed on Krolok’s chest. As it did so, I came out of my trance and clambered from the cradle as fast as I could. Shouts came from below. I didn’t dare glance down. I ran across the gantries, into the next studio, and tried to slide down a thick cable, burning my palms, and falling the last 20 or so feet. A heavy, but otherwise uneventful landing, meant that I could run like hell for the exit door. I froze as it began to open toward me, but became reanimated as a puzzled Scranton looked around the edge.

‘What’s all the racket?’

‘There’s been a break-in, Officer Scranton! Thieves are in the next studio! Arrest them! I’ll get the police!’ I shouted, then dodged around him and ran like the wind.

I successfully escaped the main building and kept on running for home.

Lying sweating in my bed, I tried to make sense of what I’d been witness to. Had Britain’s King Of The Warlocks and some TV technicians managed to raise a long-dead Black Sorceror? I couldn’t take it in. A couple of Scotches made me feel ill, but successfully knocked me out.

I woke up feeling less than ready to face the day. Arriving at the Studio late I was summoned to a senior producer’s office, where I was read the riot act.

She didn’t give away too much of what had happened, except that apparently a camera had been stolen. Scranton had recognised me and grassed me up. He’d discovered ‘thieves’ in the studio, and been knocked out for his trouble. He didn’t recognise anyone else.

I realised that I was being accused of being a lookout or a decoy, for the theft! I denied everything. They didn’t press charges, but I lost my job. I didn’t see anyone I knew as I left, and didn’t particularly want to stay in contact with any of them. They hadn’t been the good friends I’d thought.

‘*************************************

Colin McGregor died of a brain haemorrhage on Monday night, so the programme was never transmitted. Some of what was considered his more worthwhile journalism was aired instead. In hindsight, I expected the tabloids to make more of a fuss, but no mention of the last in the series of ‘McGregor Investigates’ was made.

I’d moved on to a more mundane office job, when I saw Sam Markules obituary in The Guardian. A car crash.

Within the next month Alexis Sandbag succumbed to heart failure. He went as he probably would have wanted, conducting a ritual on a remote Scottish Island in the middle of a circle of standing stones. I felt sure that at least some of the programme would be used , but the reports were very terse.

Visiting my Grandfather I renewed my acquaintance with the good old lurid Sundays. It was a good weekend for them. Two ‘high-flying television back-room girls’ were revealed to be not only lesbians, but one had murdered the other, then committed suicide. I recognised Jan and Liz from the blurred photgraphs, and my paranoia began to grow.

On a whim, I telephoned the TV studios and asked for Pop. I was told that he no longer worked for the Corporation. They were unable to provide any further information. I hung up when they asked who I was.

Back home, I did some thinking. Assuming that Pop was dead, that meant everyone involved in the raising of Krolok had passed on. Was I safe? I thought so. I hadn’t participated. Perhaps Krolok (I also assumed that, not only was he back from the dead, but also was responsible for the elimination of his resurrectionists) didn’t know who I was, or didn’t care. I wasn’t important or involved enough.

I toyed with two possible ways forward. To try and have a chat with Gregory Pendennis. Or, as the longest possible shot, to try and contact Danny Leaf, rock musician extraordinaire, and owner of the second biggest collection of Krolokiana in the world. (Just behind Kevin Ire. But compared to him, Leaf seemed relatively normal)
Pendennis was unobtainable. Apparently he’d gone to his Cornish country cottage with his nephew, and it was unknown when they would return.

Surprisingly, I had much better luck with the famous guitarist. I telephoned his agent, and mentioned that I had been involved in the McGregor Investigates programme. She assured me that she would pass the message on.

Danny himself telephoned me two days later, and offered to meet me in an obscure country pub near his Surrey mansion.

I took the requisite day off, and turned up at the pub early. Leaf was there, on his own. We retired to the snug, a tiny room that could just contain the pair of us, and he asked what was on my mind. I blurted out the whole story, finishing with ‘You must think I’m mad.’

‘Oh no, ‘ he replied gently. ‘You’re nowhere near mad. If you think I don’t believe you, I do. I’ve been offered the film.’

Sitting there surrounded by cool whitewashed walls, the sunshine streaming in through a tiny window, watching the streams of bubbles in our pints, I found it difficult to think about those previous dark events.

‘You know all the other people involved in this are dead?’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘But then an awful lot of people who became involved with Anton Krolok died. And not of natural causes.’

I didn’t know quite how to say what I wanted to say.

‘If you believe me….’

‘I do.’

‘Then….you accept….the possibility….that Krolok is alive. And out there somewhere.’

I gestured vaguely.


Leaf smiled.

‘Oh yes. I’ve talked to Kev about this. He told me he’d seen the film. And was convinced that it was genuine. He’s going to conduct a ritual on April 30th. To call Krolok to him.’

‘Will you be there.’

‘No. Despite my interest, I’m a bit like you. I don’t want to practice magic. I’m interested in those who do, but it’s ….too dangerous. As I said, there have been so many deaths.’

Our conversation petered out, and I thanked him for his time and left. Just before my departure, he took my address and promised to send me a bootleg DVD-r of the McGregor Investigates programme.

It arrived the next week, but I put the package to one side and left it unopened. Fortunately, work became hectic, and I struck up an acquaintance with some fellow office workers. The cinema, gigs, the theatre.

I didn’t think about anything Krolok-related until May 5th, when I caught a news bulletin about the death of Kevin Ire. Police in Beverley Hills were confounded by his apparent spontaneous combustion during ‘an occult ritual.’ It had taken a few days to identify his body.

I saw the package from Danny Leaf on the floor of the lounge. I opened it up, and took out the shiny blank disc.

Krolok’s face appeared reflected in the silver. I dropped the disc and whirled around. No-one there.

I tried to control the shaking of my hands as I picked up the disc. Had the lights in the room dimmed? I turned the television on and jumped at the harsh blare of white noise. Static filled the screen. The remote control slithered as though alive in my sweaty hand. I pushed button after button. Had the batteries gone? Finally, a picture appeared. One of those property programmes. I normally hated this sort of thing, but the asinine presenters and money-hungry would be buyers cheered me up no end. I sighed with relief and flopped onto the sofa, my heartbeat gradually beginning to slow.

I realised that I still had the disc in my other hand. Cautiously, I looked at it. No sinister reflections. Just my own pasty, nervous face. The face tried a smile. Did I really want to watch this? Get it over with. Watch it , then throw it. Send it back to Leaf.

Taking a deep breath, I leaned forward and watch the DVD player swallow the disc.

I don’t quite know why, but I expected the quality of the sound and images to be poor. It was pin-sharp and perfect.

The familiar theme tune of McGregor Investigates blared out, an almost discordant fanfare. I felt tears in my eyes as the late Colin McGregor appeared behind a desk and barked

‘Witchcraft – Seventeenth Century Superstition – or a real and terrifying menace even today?’

I hoped that there was a copy of this in the BBC archives, and that it might be transmitted one day. I was enthralled. McGregor’s fears that it would come over as a load of rubbish were quite unfounded. The programme was riveting. Even the late Alexis Sandbag came over as interesting (thanks to the sterling work of the late Sam Markules, I suspected. What an editor!).

In fact, I was actually enjoying the programme until the first of the pictures of Anton Krolok appeared on the screen. As his quavering but forceful tones from the crackly radio broadcast detailed his researches into the work of one Doctor Dementer, the eyes in the photograph moved to stare at me. I felt pinned to the sofa. The head turned to follow the eyes. The moon face filled the screen as I gasped for breath.

The telephone rang. My eyes were torn from the screen, and I felt released. I practically ran across the lounge to pick up the ‘phone.

‘Yes?’

A familiar voice spoke my name.

‘Danny?’

‘Yeah, it’s me. Look, are you free this weekend?’

‘Erm…yeah…why?’

‘I’d like you to come up to Scotland. To my place up there, by Loch Ness. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. I’m sending a motorcycle courier round with some cash for travelling expenses and details of how to find my place. I’ll see you there.’

‘Great!’

‘Have you watched the programme yet?’

I felt a chill, and glanced back at the screen. To my relief, old man Pendennis was holding forth on the fact that 98% of Black Sorcery was, in fact, cobblers.

‘I’m just watching it now.’

‘Turn it off. Don’t watch anymore. And bring the disc to Scotland with you. Can you do that?’

His voice had an urgency about it.

‘No problem. See you Saturday.’

‘See you. Turn that thing off now.’

‘Yeah, yeah, OK.’

I put the ‘phone down and grabbed the remote.

Colin McGregor was talking to music journalist Sandy Beech as they strolled beside a large lake.

‘And the guitarist Leaf has actually purchased this property?’

‘Yeah, Col. Bolokskin. Krolok’s old place by Loch Ness.’

The black-clad, long-haired, bespectacled journo gestured at a large house nestling in the trees not far from the Loch shoreline.

McGregor, in trademark deerstalker, and Ulster, leaned on his walking stick.

‘And it was here that Krolok…’

I pressed ‘stop’.
The journey to Scotland was uneventful. I caught the train from Kings Cross and dozed, reread The Huge Monster, listened to Danny’s group performing The Songs Are All The Same on my MP3. I had to change at Edinburgh and eventually rolled up at Inverness just gone 5 pm. Over nine hours! I was sick of that album. And had binned the Simmons’ book.

The taxi from Inverness station didn’t take long, and wasn’t expensive. The driver didn’t even comment on my destination. It had gotten dark by now. As I stood outside the house, I noticed the graveyard across the road. It was freezing cold. An owl hooted. I could see the moon, as well as my breath. I suddenly wished I’d bought some sort of gift for Dan. I always thought of these things too late.

I walked down a small gravel path to the front door. As I raised my fist to knock, the door opened. Danny stood in the hall.

‘Come in.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Good journey?’

‘Fine. Bit dullsville.’

‘You didn’t fly?’

Oh, shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Had he been expecting me eight hours earlier? Did he think I was secreting my expenses?

‘I came by train. I didn’t think…’

‘Come in here.’

Danny opened a small door on his left. I followed him into a large room, with a massive bay window, overlooking the Loch. Moonlight glinted on the black water. Subdued lighting kept much of the room in a kind of semi-darkness.

I became aware of three other occupants of the room. A black leather sofa was pushed up against the wall. On it squatted an obese, bald, toad-like man. His body was encased in a long black coat, from throat to ankles. Both hands were fisted around the handle of an ebony walking-stick.

Sitting on the arm of the sofa, next to the man was a young woman, clad in a figure-hugging black dress. High-heeled black shoes adorned her feet. Long dark hair, flanked by two white streaks, curled around her shoulders.

On the other side of the man purred a large black cat, it’s green eyes fixed on me.

Danny coughed.

‘I’d like you to meet Anton Krolok, Lorelei and Satan.’

Despite a log fire blazing behind us, I’d never felt colder in my life.

‘*****************

‘Did you bring the…film?’ Krolok’s voice had none of the querulousness of the radio broadcast. He sounded powerful, in his prime.

I realised that he meant the disc.

‘Yes.’

I took it from my jacket pocket, and tried to give it to Danny. Leaf moved away, and looked out of the window.

Krolok extended his hand. I did a double take. It had only three fingers, all of which ended in talons.

The thought went through my head that I was being set up, the victim of some kind of practical joke. This was being carefully stage-managed.

I put the disc back into my jacket pocket.

The woman stood up and walked toward me. She hit me very, very hard. I stumbled backward, felt the heat from the fire and jumped forward, tripping over a set of fire irons. They and I hit the floor simultaneously.

The woman took a step forward, picked up the poker and thrust it into the fire. Her high heel then stabbed into the back of my hand and drew blood. I squealed, more in shock than pain.

‘Danny? What’s going on?’

Leaf remained stationary, gazing out at the Loch.

Krolok rose from the sofa. He pulled at the curve of his walking-stick. The handle came away, unsheathing a thin rapier-like sword.

The cat spat.

‘I’m not here to play games. You can have cold steel. You can have a red-hot poker. Mr Leaf has told me that you witnessed my….comeback. Well, my dear boy, you are the last. We are isolated here and can take our time. It’s been a while since I’ve had time on my hands. I hope you don’t break down too quickly.’

‘DANNY!!’

‘He can’t help you. He’s beholden to me. For his skill, his fame, his money, and his mystique.’

I heard the coals behind me move. The cat’s tail lashed back and forth. I felt in my jacket pocket, but the disc was no longer there.

Lorelei pulled her spiked heel from the back of my hand. I winced and thrust the damaged extremity into my other jacket pocket. The disc was there! I fumbled it out, and offered it to Krolok.

He threw his head back and laughed.

‘It’s too late for that, boy.’

‘Oh no.’

I saw Krolok and Lorelei turn towards Danny. He was still staring out of the window, but was now pointing a shaking hand at the sky.

‘Look!’

The sky was turning darker. A flock of strangely shaped objects were flying toward Bolokskin. Danny ducked beneath the window sill as glass shattered and the objects filled the room, buzzing in anger around Krolok.

I tried to make out what they were. Cucumbers, onions, tomatoes, cabbages, aubergines, carrots, leeks….

Krolok was screaming and slashing at the vegetables with his swordstick. The cat, Satan, ears flat against his head, tail twice its normal size and lashing from side to side, growled and sprang at me. Claws and teeth sank into my neck and back. I howled and rolled over. The cat was dislodged and dazed. I grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and hurled it into the fire. An almost human scream came from it, as it immolated.

‘Bastard!’ hissed Lorelei. She thrust the poker at my face, and I rolled to the side once more. Danny appeared through the vegetable storm, and grabbed her shoulders.

‘Come on!’ he bellowed, and shoved her through the door.

Despite Krolok’s slicing and dicing, the cut vegetables were attaching themselves to him. He was disappearing under layer after layer of rotting veg. Two perfectly circular cucumber slices settled on his eyes. He dropped the sword which pierced the parquet flooring and quivered before my nose.

He was now almost unrecognisable. His arms outstretched, he slowly began to rotate. Spinning crucifixion in salad form. The figure slowly left the floor and span toward the window. I crawled over the sticky floor toward the smashed window as the vegetised Krolok passed through. The figure slowly rotated through the air until it was above the Loch, then dropped suddenly into the water with a disappointing plop.

A short silence was shattered by the revving of an engine, and a brand new SUV careered into sight, two hunched forms in the front. It reached the main road and disappeared into the night.

I watched the Loch until I became aware of the intense cold. Hunting through the now empty house, I found a bedroom with a made bed, and slipped in. Before dropping off into a dreamless sleep I considered the fact that there was now a real monster in the Loch.

Despite the previous events, I woke early. I found the taxi firm’s card in my jacket and called them. While waiting, I strolled down to the nearest point of the Loch. A few sodden vegetables floated on the black water, like a cheap and awful stew.

I slept for most of the train journey, awakened only by the food and drink trolley. I bought a newspaper and frowned at the stop press picture of Danny Leaf, arm outstretched toward the flashbulbs, hurrying through Glasgow’s departure lounge, ‘with an unnamed woman.’ The paparazzi had slipped up. The woman was clad in a voluminous cloak, with a hood pulled over her face. You could just make out the tip of her nose.

On arrival at King’s Cross, I mooched around the station.

‘Spare some pence for a cup o’ tea, Son?’

‘No Big Issue?’

I grinned at the tramp. Then frowned. And tried to see past the balaclava, grime, salt and pepper stubble….

‘Pop?’

The ex-BBC archivist cackled with glee.

‘I thought it was you! You got away then, Son?’

‘Yes. I….How did you…?’

‘Get the drinks in, Son, and I’ll explain.’

Fifteen minutes later, we sat on a bench next to a tiny green enclosed lawn outside the railway station. I sipped some vegetable juice, Pop slurped from a can of Atomic strength lager.

‘How did you know…’ I began.

‘I saw you in my Mirror Of Illusion.’

‘Your…are you some kind of magician, Pop?’

‘I dabble.’ The old man looked away.

‘Folly of youth. I was in the Emetic Order of the Golden Yawn. Krolok attended a couple of our meetings. Funny thing, you know, Matheson McGregor was the founder of the order. Colin McGregor’s dad. I always felt Col was a bit ashamed of that. And that’s why he didn’t want to do the programme.What a programme, eh? Shame it’ll never be seen. That radio stuff. That was from my own archives, not the Beeb’s. I think there was some…kind of ….ritual stuff in what old Anton was saying. I think that may have helped bring him back. I should have been more careful.’

‘So it wasn’t Sandbag?’

‘Yeah, it was. In a way. He’s…was…just a chancer who got lucky. Fantastic memory. Could recite ritual stuff for hours. But nothing going on there.’ Pop tapped his temple.
‘I think that’s why his rituals worked. His mind was blank when he performed them. Totally receptive. What happened to Krolok?’

‘He’s in the Loch. Attacked by…’

‘Vegetables.’

‘You know?’

‘I sent them.’

‘What?’

‘It was all I had! I was holed up in New Covent Garden. I’d cloaked myself so old Anton couldn’t find me. I don’t think he was that bothered, just tidy. Wanted everyone involved out of the way so he could move about with no-one knowing. You were the only other. I watched what was going on. I conjured up a spell to send whatever was to hand to help you.’

‘Thanks. Do you think Krolok's dead now?’

‘You can’t kill something that’s already dead. He died, physically, in 1947. But he always claimed that he’d been around for centuries previously. He’s been resurrected before. That’s how his daughter came about.’

‘Lorelei?’

‘Yup. Wish I could find out who her mother was. Then we’d know a lot more.’

‘So, what do we do now?’

‘Don’t worry, Son. I don’t think he’ll bother us again. I’ve put up a couple of protection charms, but when he gets out of the Loch, he’ll have other things to worry about. Take care.’

The old tramp heaved himself up off the bench, and tottered of down the road. I heard a squeal of brakes and watched a slanging match between a taxi driver and a bicycle courier. Blessed normality!

I stuck my hands into my jacket pockets as I stood up to go home, and felt the edge of the battered, bloodstained, cracked DVD-r case.

I decided to make for the river, and walk home that way.